


Death and (Former) Kings

by DoreyG



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry V - Fandom, Richard II - Fandom
Genre: And also being weird, Canonical Character Death, M/M, Multi, Sitting in a field and angsting after death, Though that's hardly a warning for these three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-05
Updated: 2012-03-05
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:06:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edward, Duke of York (and formerly Aumerle) dies at Agincourt... And then ends up in an odd version of Agincourt with two former kings bitching at each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death and (Former) Kings

”I’m dead!” He cries, the moment he sits up from having an axe (or a sword, or a reasonably sharp thing with an entirely painful blade) embedded in his neck.

“Yes,” huffs Richard in reply to this (maybe a little obvious) statement, sitting nearby with grumpily crossed arms, “indeed, join the _club_.”

“ _Richard_.”

…Huh.

This is a bit of a surprise.

 _Richard_ , the former Richard II of England (known as Richard of Bordeaux to some people with long memories), is definitely sitting on a rather mysterious log nearby with his arms grumpily crossed before him.

Likewise, _Henry_ , Henry IV of England (known as Henry that fucking bastard to some bitter traitors), is standing just a little to the side of Richard with an incredibly disapproving expression – the type that his face always seemed to suck into when Richard was around.

…His hair has grown back.

His skin has somehow managed it too.

“Wha-?” He starts, mouth shooting ahead of his shockingly stumbling and much abused mind, “but you’re _dead_.”

…Richard’s eyebrows are just as sharp as he remembered. In the guilty moments, late at night when everybody else was asleep and the bile was choking, “indeed, Edward. Just as you are dead, just as we have already established. That’s why it’s a _club_ , Edward, and not simply a vengeful haunting designed to send you mad.”

“ _Richard_ ,” Henry protests again, looking like he’s used to saying that name with various levels of pure frustration, “he’s only just died-”

“Doesn’t mean that he has to be an idiot about it.”

“-And so is rather confused. Do try, _try_ , to go against your basest nature and be pleasant for once,” with that Henry turns back to him, an honestly encouraging expression just beaming from his face, “you meant something else, didn’t you?”

“…You’re both dead,” he repeats, still not quite there yet.

And Richard _snorts_.

“Edward,” but Henry just represses his glare, like the most _patient_ of men (but, then, he was always that – it took an awful lot of pushing (horrific pushing, pushing that could and did break a man) to get the proper sort of rage out of him), “please don’t make me punch Richard again, _please_. It’ll be pleasant for nobody.”

He opens his mouth anyway-

…Closes it.

Allows his mind to come huffing, desperate and still flailing, into sight before opening it again “…You both died a fair few years ago.”

“Ah… _See_?”

“And not in a muddy, hellish field in France whilst in the middle of a pitched battle,” he protests again, mind finally starting to settle down with a glass of finest wine “…Even if it does seem an awful lot less pitched than it should be right now.”

“An understatement, my dear Edward?”

“…Um.”

“Rather,” Richard answers that himself, with a haughty lift of his ever so regal nose (if only he’d been as good at acting the part of king as looking it), “since there’s nobody here but us jolly three, us band of _brothers_ in this vague sort of breach.”

“…I’m sure he _noticed_ , Richard.”

“I _did_ notice, thank you Henry,” he has a moment to feel snootily pleased with himself, like the duke he is (was)… “I mean: Your Majesty-!”

“Edward,” Henry interrupts him firmly, before he even manages to get two seconds in, “The man fighting on that battlefield now is Your Majesty. I’ve reverted to simply Henry.”

“Simple being the operative word.”

“ _Richard_ ” …Henry seems to realize that he’s been saying that far too much (a bit like an adolescent with a crush, who doesn’t realize that every other word is the object of their affection), turns it into an opportunistic segue while he still can, “Is also no longer a Majesty either. So, even if he _begs_ you to use his old title you must resist the urge – he is only Richard, just as I am only Henry and you are only Edward.”

“Don’t-“

“You’ve been dead for fifteen _years_ , Richard.”

“And whose fault is that?” Richard grumbles, with an air of peevishness that suggests that they’ve had this argument many times before, “I was illegally removed from my throne and unfairly murdered. I should’ve regained my titles upon death, to _console_ me after the numerous sufferings that I endured in the process of being too good for that sinful earth.”

“That makes no sense, Richard-“

“At least he didn’t tell me to get over it this time,” Richard, however, is not listening to the lack of sense he is making – is instead staring over at him with a half-mad, half-beseeching look in those (well-remembered) eyes, “he did the first few times after he got beyond fainting, you know. It was _most_ annoying.”

“…Yes, I can believe that,” he slowly nods, half recognizing that he’s falling into that old routine yet again (it’s like he never stopped), “but did you also tell him to get over his own death?”

Richard shrugs.

“Right _after_ his own death?”

Richard shrugs again.

Henry, however, looks rather cross.

“…His own death that was two years ago now, God,” he still mutters to himself softly, over Henry’s crossness and with his remarkably clean hands knotted before him, “Which brings me almost nicely to my next point: you’ve both been dead for ages. Why are you still here?”

He watches Henry and Richard, both of them taking far too long to drag themselves away from their mutual glaring.

“…Is this heaven?”

The curve of Richard’s lips is something to behold, “does it look like heaven?”

“Well…”

“We’re not sure _where_ this is,” Henry interrupts. Mercifully, because he’s always tried to be merciful (and failed, again and again until you could barely see his haunted eyes through the blood), “probably not heaven. Probably not hell… Maybe some sort of purgatory, where we are to await our fates.”

He dwells on that for a long, almost spellbound moment “…Because we’ve all sinned in our lives.”

There’s another, longer pause.

He notices that Henry has gone slightly grey. That Richard is studying his hands and refusing to look at either of them.

“You usurped his throne,” and yet he can’t stop, can’t stop with his shaking nails digging into his palms right before him, “you deserved to be usurped… I changed sides at the last minute and have lived like that ever since-“

“Shut up, Edward,” Richard interrupts him, with a hard flicker in his (not shining, not shining at all) eyes.

“For once I agree with you,” Henry whispers, definitely grey by now and looking like only determination is keeping him upon his feet.

Silence reigns for a moment.

“I-“

“ _Shush_.”

“…I’ve missed you both, you know, despite all of that,” he carries on anyway, after a pause where he could’ve sworn that somebody had set his throat on fire, “it’s- it _was_ sad, really. A man of only forty years old, and already all the people that I’d ever properly cared about were dead.”

“…You cared about me?” Richard asks as Henry stares, an ominous sort of flatness to his voice.

“Of course-“

“Then why did you help kill me?”

“ _Richard_!”

“I didn’t know you would die!” He _yells_ , with all the pent up emotion of fifteen years of mourning and guilt and _terror_ that if he slipped up for a single moment everybody would know the truth and _rip him apart_ for it, “but I didn’t want him to die either and I cared about you both and- and-“

They’re _both_ staring at him.

“…Haven’t you seen how I’ve _lived_ since you died?” He can only draw himself up, stare right back at both of them (even if with burning eyes) and carry on as best he can, “a shadow of a man. A wisp going through the motions and somehow surviving for yet more wretched days.”

“Surviving and thriving,” Henry interrupts, staring at him like he’s never seen him before (but, then, he never confessed that he loved (loves) the man before – that deserves at least a little confusion).

“Somehow-“ he mutters, failing to save his voice from raggedness.

“A commander at Agincourt.”

“ _Somehow_ ,” he swipes at his eyes, isn’t sure whether it does any good “…You did see, then?”

“…Yes,” Richard admits slowly, still staring like he simply can’t look away, “I- we saw, heard and even felt what you were doing at most times.”

“Oh.”

“When Henry wasn’t stalking his sons.”

“When you weren’t cheering on all the rebellions,” Henry corrects grumpily… Also still staring like he can’t look away.

“…I fell into my position at Agincourt,” he manages to defend anyway, voice still ragged and hands still softly shaking, “I didn’t manipulate my way into it, honestly. I didn’t bribe or beg or get down on my knees-“

“I’d hope not,” Henry says, looking briefly sick again.

“I _know_ ,” Richard nods, sending Henry an almost amused smile “…And for what it’s worth I’ve missed you too. Just as I missed Henry, oddly enough – desperately, helplessly and so pathetically that I’m rather surprised an angel didn’t turn up to whack me over the head.”

“I just had to do.”

“Thank _you_ , Henry.”

…He looks between the both of them slowly. Swallowing back something that he can’t quite name. Something that he’s never been quite been able to name whether he’s been lying in Richard’s bed and dreaming of Henry’s hot mouth upon his or standing by Henry and missing Richard so desperately that his heart lay shattered in his chest, “if things had turned out differently-“

“They couldn’t have,” Henry soothes.

“They _didn’t_ ,” Richard _snorts_ , “but we’re all dead now and all the little, stubborn things that kept us apart are but leaves on the forest floor. We’re not sure how long this’ll last, whether it’ll be for forever or just for the next few moments, but we might as well stop dwelling on what was and start dreaming of what could be for however long we have left, right?”

…He hesitates for a long moment.

“ _Right_?”

He glances at Henry, who’s slowly nodding. Glances at the field around them, which somehow seems more real than the life that he’s been living for the past fifteen years. Glances at _both_ Henry and Richard, and Richard’s slightly ruffled hair and Henry’s slightly bruised lips and the way that they both look _happier_ than they ever did on earth… “Yes.”

And it’s simple, really.

He’s dead. And so the step forward into their arms is wonderfully easy as a result.


End file.
